The Runemark
by April29Roses
Summary: Arthur's fate hangs in the balance as the Disir change the judgement they have passed on him. Four times the Runemark will come to Arthur's hand. Warlock and king must find their way past the hidden deceptions and betrayals that tear at the soul of their friendship and the destiny of Camelot. This is an alternative season five story arc.


The Runemark Prologue

She had been reared in the heart of magic. It had chosen her since the day of her birth and had been her constant companion, her dearest surety in a world where all else had gone mad. With magic, she and her sisters of the Disir had withstood the dark fury of Uther's purge of magic. Magic had been her weapon, her shield, her only comfort. She knew magic as intimately as a lover, as completely as a mother knows her infant child.

That had been her core and her blazing faith, until she saw the young man who stood quietly behind the arrogant king on whom they passed judgement. There stood Arthur, the vicious cub of a murderous madman. Indeed prophecies surrounded this king, and the young servant who stood at his side. Ancient lore had been reviewed; the meaning of prophecies had been dissected and debated by the most brilliant sorcerers and witches. Scholars of the arcane had debated the relationship of Emrys and the Once and Future King.

But all the words and prophecies fell silent in the brutal appearance of Arthur and his companions at the holiest of shrines. They had come marching into the their presence of the Disir, like the rude barbarians they were. Too blind to feel the sacred, they had stomped their way into the holiest of their shrines, bringing with them their cold iron and steel. Confident in their weapons, they trampled the sacred way.

Their arrogant stupidity set her teeth on edge and her sisters were similarly sickened. The cries of women and children arose from the well of her memories, scenes of murder. She remembered the eerie silence of the druid camps decimated by Uther's troops. Among the tumbled tents and broken crockery, there amid the pitiful gaping mouths of the murdered children and the anguished faces of the dead, she found only anger and despair. It filled her, defined her, and sang like the heartstring of a lute in never ending lament. She could feel on her tongue the ritual she had chanted too many times, the words that calmed the unquiet spirits of the dead crying out for their vengeance, the spell that quelled the helpless sobs of the murdered innocents. But there was no peace.

She could not deny the hatred in her heart. Hatred had grown in place of the beauty that had been destroyed. Anger seethed in the abyss of the knowledge of magic that had ended in the burning of books and scrolls and the slaughter of the gentle scholars who had written them. In her heart, she could not understand how Emrys could stand by the monster's son and look on the continued destruction of his people without a qualm. That was what she knew, what she believed until the moment she looked into his eyes.

Emrys was no sorcerer. No, not at all. Magic flowed in him; it sang in his very heartbeat and flashed in his every silence. He was a force both elemental and unyoked, enormous and barely disciplined. He was a creature of magic so pure it broke her heart. When he looked at her, his gaze serious and uncompromising, vigilant and silently valiant, the judgement they had made on Arthur quaked to it's foundations. Emrys' eyes stormed silently and her heart sank, not in fear, but as the hunter takes in the vital beauty of the deer before the arrow claims it's lifeblood. She looked into the doomed soul of Emrys and the words of judgement turned to ash upon her tongue.

At that moment, Arthur tossed the Runemark, delivered at such cost by their faithful Osgar, at their feet. It landed with a puff of dust. Anger choked her anew, at the thought of his callous disrespect. The blood of Osgar was on his hands, though his was not the hand that spilt his blood. She raised her eyes once more to Emrys, still a silent shadow behind his king.

Magic was not what she thought it was. In that moment, her most central truth became unknowable, mysterious. The intricacies of ritual and spell faded in the magic that drove his true heart. Power shimmered around him and by that light the Goddess moved in the shadows. The world as she knew it changed.

Against her will, moved by a power she could not resist, she scrabbled in the dust. She knelt and offered it again to Arthur.

"Beware this Runemark, Arthur of Camelot. Four times will it come to your hand. Embrace it's lessons or deny them as you choose. Camelot will flower or be destroyed by lies and betrayals and it's fate, along with your own, is now in your hand." With fear she lifted her eyes. But she did not look at the young king, but at the slender servant behind him. "Only the gods can change a man's fate, whether he is royal or not." The depth of fire in the soul of Emrys shattered her world further.

"What is written may yet change."

She sank to her knees. Her mind was overwhelmed by the skirling confusion and distress of her sisters in the Disir, hammering at her thoughts. Caught in this silent conflagration, she understood their world had changed. Visions of the future flickered in her mind, alternatives surged to life and faded from reality like dreams. The possible moved and evolved. The shadow of the Goddess laughed and wove triune patterns in her mind.

The priestess clenched her hand over the metal of the Runemark. It's raised symbols glowed gold in the darkness of the cave. She gripped the graven disk tighter, for faith.

The blond king came forward. His breathing sounded unnatural in the gloom and he did not speak as he pulled the Runemark from her hand. There was a distance in his eyes, a quiet strength that somehow gave her hope, even as her heart held tight her anger and despair. But as the Runemark left her hand, she felt her conviction and her strength leave her.

Emrys turned then, and he cast his look on her once more as the king and his knights began to turn away. The youngest knight reeked of magic as well; a chill of mortality shook the priestess as this knight moved past Emrys and into the passageway. The servant's shining gaze was steady. Not once had his vigilance wavered throughout the surprising events of the meeting, nor had he spoken. Emrys' eyes were guarded, their depths shuttered, his magic vibrating against her awareness. It pulsed with the one emotion she could not have anticipated. It blazed in her magical awareness, brilliant at a star as twilight, simple as the human heart. It was stronger, more unknowable than destiny or fate.

"What is written, may yet change," whispered Emrys.

She wept.

A/N This is a larger story arc than I have ever taken on. Your kind thoughts and encouragement are deeply valued and I hope you will forgive my latest absence from writing. This story is dedicated to my beloved, late husband, who always believed I could do anything my madness could conceive, in the hope that I will (eventually) come around to his point of view.

"But strength still goes out from your thorns, and from your abysses the sound of music. Your shadow lies on my heart like roses, and your nights are like strong wine." Gene Wolfe


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